


Typical Life That A Book Has To Go Through

by JaseekaDarkblade2020



Category: Original Work
Genre: Books, Books vs Technology, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Comedy, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, I Wrote This In My Creative Writing Class, Nostalgia, Other, Past, Personification, Pro Books, Pro Or Anti Technology, Symbolism, Technology, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weird Fluff, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaseekaDarkblade2020/pseuds/JaseekaDarkblade2020
Summary: The book is sick of being avoided at all times because of technology coming around. Is it correct that technology has gone too far? Or is it being insensitive and incorrect? It's all up to YOU as the reader.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Typical Life That A Book Has To Go Through

As a book, I am offended by how humans have advanced in life. Back in the 80's, we used to be a great resource for almost anything you could think of. We were the key component to research. Now, it’s all internet this, internet that. Google this for me, please! Who in their right mind would just stop reading books altogether? Apparently the majority of this sad population of lazy imbeciles do.

There were fun and funny moments between me and all those smart and sweet people at that time. I have to admit that some moments were deadly serious that even middle schoolers would’ve been held back from reading me and others like me. Now? There is only entertainment. Youtube, Facebook, Twitter, you name it. Entertainment can be accurately educational at times, but most of the time it can’t. There has to be a balance between books and internet. It cannot be more than the other. Everyone knows it; they just never care to notice.

Before my mind swarms with more negative thoughts I think of everyday, I feel the sound of the footsteps within my delicate pages drawing near to the bookcase which I have been stuck on for an eternity. Luckily, this time, someone seems to be on my side. Smooth fingers, then hands, envelop perfectly around by body seize me with care from the bookshelf, then they begin to skim over my looks like I am an alien from another planet. If I had a spine, then I surely would've had shivers crawling down it- albeit, good shivers. They would be nostalgic shivers. Their thumb starts brushing against my front cover with a familiar softness that I may have felt before…

_ Hey! It’s me, your favorite book! The Color P- _

Then I remember. She cannot hear me. But I still try with every fiber of my being. Eyes are the only ones to speak with me, nothing else. It is more than enough for me. Back then, I may have been desperate for verbal talk, but with the way things are with books like me, all we truly need are communicative eyes. Eyes have always been beautiful to me, anyways. I know, a bit strange, but even some of the most injured eyes I have seen in my time, they still all remain equally beautiful to me, especially to us in general. I have seen eyes that have returned from wars, parties, funerals, bars, and so forth. Those are the random assortments of eyes that had suddenly decided to read me like I was some scarce artifact that anyone could’ve ever created and or seen. Ecstatic eyes. Intoxicated eyes. Dejected eyes.  **_We_ ** have seen it all, not just me. So, if you couldn’t tell already, we love attention and, of course, eyes. Eyes always tend to speak louder than words to us books. The person reading us may lie to their friends about how they are not affected by a certain emotional moment in a story, but for us, what we see in their eyes is always true. Their friends may not see the truth, but we always do.

She has stopped packing some items into a box, then I feel her feet rumble against the floor as she reaches for me on the bookshelf. She has me in her hands like she’s afraid to let go of me. Her grip is so tight that if I were to have lungs, I surely would’ve been squeezed and suffocated to death. Luckily, I’m merely a book, so all I have to worry about are uncomfortably folded pages. As my thoughts wither away, what I end up seeing in her eyes is nostalgia. Every line and crevasse of my ‘raised letter’ cover she studies with patience and notion. Lastly, what I see is a new sadness I’ve never seen within her beautiful, empathetic eyes before. Before I can speak, even though she wouldn’t hear me even if she tried, she whispers, “Oh. My. God. I have missed you. You are a story that has taught me many things. You are my favorite for that very reason. It’s not just that. It is also the fun, the funny, and the relatable moments you have given me. So, for that, I will not send you to the yard sale. I will keep you for as long as I possibly can.”

_ Well, thank you very much, ma’am! That was unexpectedly nice of you to say! _

If I was human, I would’ve thought what she said to be a lie. I would’ve thought she was exaggerating. But when you’re a book, you merely know and see the deep and effective truth in their eyes like they’re guilty of expressing it within their voices. Books seem to know everything a human knows. Maybe it is all in my imagination.

She flips me over and I get startled as she reads my back. All I see is the usual smooth, white-tiled floor that I sometimes would be dropped onto either by accident, on purpose, or simply in satanic- a commonly human behavior there- anger. As all the same info appears memorized into her head like it did back then, that is when she has found her conclusion.

“Yeah, you’re a keeper,” she confirms as she turns me over so we can be face to- well, front cover, with a nod and a look of pride washes over her face. It is the expression that lets anyone know that this is what she wants, nothing else.

She slots me back in between two other books I barely speak with, then she packs up a few more of my most familiar bookfriends and leaves the bookshelf, box in hands, without looking back. I always never liked being on this bookshelf. It is always so tight and almost unbearable to deal with. After all, I am surrounded, unfortunately, by twin books. Yes, that’s right. She owns two of the same book. They’re always arguing with each other like they have never grown up before in their entire damn lives. Their voices endlessly travel from front to back. Oh, did I say in my pages? No, I let their useless hushed conversations pass me by as if I am never there from the get go. Perhaps that could be why I bear claustrophobia in the first place. Which book wouldn’t have that fear?

As day turns into night, I still constantly think of how she eyed me as her childhood. Her special book. Her special story that gave her life. That gave her something important to think about. That gave her useful education. That gave her laughs, questions, answers, philosophy, emotion, facts, familiarity, energy, anything that has improved her to be the way she is to this day. 

I may have been surrounded by many readers when I was first created, but I still felt a bit alone. That wasn’t until she bought me between the early to mid eighties. Ever since then, I’ve realized, maybe just having one special, personal fan is all you need. She still uses her cell phone, sadly, but that small moment between us proved that there is still hope for this world, especially for old books like me who usually receive little to no treatment whatsoever.

I see her pass by my bookshelf and enter into her bedroom. It must be warm and comforting in there. I am almost desperate to know what it feels like to be cuddled, even if it’s by the bed covers themselves. This may seem a bit creepy now, but I would like to be cuddled by her the most. I mean, by today, I find out she supports me and I’m her most favorite story of all, yet she doesn’t think of bringing me to bed with her? Strange. Strange, indeed. Well, I know humans don’t cuddle with books, even if they’re obsessed with them, but still… I don’t want to be stuck remaining in this bookshelf with these twin fools. The hard bookshelf as well in comparison to the bed is a huge difference all on its own, even if I never felt a bed before. I’ve seen how soft beds look, but the  **_feel_ ** . I wish to experience it someday, even if it may be without her. 

She goes to bed, and as she sleeps, I say to her with her unknowing,

_ Thank you. And yeah, you are a keeper too. _


End file.
